Patriot Games by Tom Clancy

“Can I help you with that, now?” he asked politely. His accent made him sound different, but rather kind, the lady thought. He held the bag while she unlocked the door.

“I’m afraid I’m a little early — waiting to meet my young lady, you see,” he explained with a charming smile. “I’m sorry if I startled you, ma’am — just trying to keep out of this bitter wind.”

“Would you like to wait inside the door?” she offered.

“That’s very kind indeed, ma’am, but no. I might miss her and it’s a bit of a surprise, you see. Good day to you.” His hand relaxed around the knife in his coat pocket.

Sergeant Cummings finished going over the papers and walked outside. He noticed the man in the doorway for the first time. Looked like he was waiting for someone, the Sergeant judged, and trying to keep out of the cold north wind. That seemed sensible enough. The Sergeant checked his watch. Four-fifteen.

“I think that does it,” Bernie Katz said.

“We did it,” Cathy Ryan agreed. There were smiles all around the OR. It had taken over five hours, but the youngster’s eye was back together. He might need another operation, and certainly he’d wear glasses for the rest of his life, but that was better than having only one eye.

“For somebody who hasn’t done one of these in four months, not bad, Cath. This kid will have both his eyes. You want to tell the family? I have to go to the john.”

The boy’s mother was waiting exactly where the Jeffers family had been, the same look of anxiety on her face. Beside her was someone with a camera.

“We saved the eye,” Cathy said at once. After she sat down beside the woman, the photographer — he said he was from the Baltimore Sun — fired away with his Nikon for several minutes. The surgeon explained the procedure to the mother for several minutes, trying to calm her down. It wasn’t easy, but Cathy’d had lots of practice.

Finally someone from Social Services arrived, and Cathy was able to head for the locker room. She pulled off her greens, tossing them in the hamper. Bernie Katz was sitting on the bench, rubbing his neck.

“I could use some of that myself,” Cathy observed. She stood there in her Gucci underwear and stretched. Katz turned to admire the view.

“Getting pretty big, Cath. How’s the back?”

“Stiff. Just like it was with Sally. Avert your gaze. Doctor, you’re a married man.”

“Can I help it if pregnant women look sexy?”

“I’m glad I look it, ’cause I sure as hell don’t feel like it at the moment.” She dropped to the bench in front of her locker. “I didn’t think we could do that one, Bernie.” “We were lucky,” Katz admitted. “Fortunately the dear Lord looks after fools, drunks, and little children. Some of the time, anyway.”

Cathy pulled open the locker. In the mirror she had inside, she saw that her hair did indeed look like the Medusa’s. She made a face at herself. “I need another vacation.”

“But you just had one,” Katz observed.

“Right,” Dr. Ryan snorted. She slid her legs into her pants and reached for her blouse.

“And when that fetus decides to become a baby, you’ll have another.”

The jacket came, next. “Bernie, if you were in OB, your patients would kill you for that sort of crap.”

“What a loss to medicine that would be,” Katz thought aloud.

Cathy laughed. “Nice job, Bern. Kiss Annie for me.”

“Sure, and you take it a little easy, eh, or I’ll tell Madge North to come after you.”

“I see her Friday, Bernie. She says I’m doing fine.” Cathy breezed out the door. She waved to her nurses, complimenting them yet again for a superb job in the OR. The elevator was next. Already she had her car keys in her hand.

The green Porsche was waiting for her. Cathy unlocked the door and tossed her bag in the back before settling in the driver’s seat. The six-cylinder engine started in an instant. The tachymeter needle swung upward to the idle setting. She let the engine warm up for a minute while she buckled her seat belt and slipped off the parking brake. The throaty rumble of the engine echoed down the concrete walls of the parking garage. When the temperature needle started to move, she shifted into reverse. A moment later she dropped the gear lever into first and moved toward Broadway. She checked the clock on the dashboard and winced — worse, she had to make a stop at the store on the way home. Well, she did have her 911 to play catch-up with.

“The target is moving,” a voice said into a radio three levels up. The message was relayed by telephone to Alex’s safehouse, then by radio again.

“About bloody time,” Miller growled a few minutes later. “Why the hell is she late?” The last hour had been infuriating for bin. First thirty minutes of waiting for her to be on time, then another thirty minutes while she wasn’t. He told himself to relax. She had to be at the day-care center to pick up the kid.

“She’s a doc. It happens, man,” Alex said. “Let’s roll.”

The pickup car led off first, followed by the van. The Ford would be at the 7-Eleven across from Giant Steps in exactly thirty minutes.

“He must be waiting for somebody pretty,” Riggs said when he got back into the guard shack.

“Still there?” Cummings was surprised. Three weeks before, Breckenridge had briefed the guard force about the possible threat to Dr. Ryan. Cummings knew that the history teacher always went out this gate — he was late today, though. The Sergeant could see that the light in his office was still on. Though the duty here was dull, Cummings was serious about it. Three months in Beirut had taught him everything he would ever need to know about that. He walked outside and took a place on the other side of the road.

Cummings watched the cars leaving. Mostly they were driven by civilians, but those driven by naval officers got a regulation Marine salute. The wind only got colder. He wore a sweater under his blouse. This kept his torso warm, but the white kid gloves that went with the dress-blue uniform were the next thing to useless. He made a great show of clapping his hands together as he turned around periodically. He never stared at the apartment building, never acted as though he knew anybody were there. It was getting dark now, and it wasn’t all that easy to see him anyway. But somebody was there.

“That was fast,” the man in the pickup car said. He checked his watch. She’d just knocked five minutes off her fastest time. Damn, he thought, must be nice to have one of those little Porsches. He checked the tag: CR-SRGN. Yep, that was the one. He grabbed the radio.

“Hi, Mom, I’m home,” he said.

“It’s about time,” a male voice answered. The van was half a mile away, sitting on Joyce Lane, west of Ritchie Highway.

He saw the lady come out of the day-care center less than two minutes later. She was in a hurry.

“Rolling.”

“Okay,” came the answer.

“Come on, Sally, we’re late. Buckle up.” Cathy Ryan hated to be late. She restarted the engine. She hadn’t been this late in over a month, but she could still make it home before Jack if she hustled.

The rush hour was under way in earnest, but the Porsche was small, fast, and agile. In a minute from sitting in the parking lot she was doing sixty-five, weaving through traffic like a race driver at Daytona.

For all their preparation, Alex almost missed her. An eighteen-wheeler was laboring up the hill in the right lane when the distinctive shape of the Porsche appeared next to it. Alex floored the van and darted out onto the road, causing the semi to jam his brakes and horn at the same time. Alex didn’t look back. Miller got out of the right-front seat and went back to the window on the sliding door.

“Whooee, this lady’s in a hurry tonight!”

“Can you catch her?” Miller asked.

Alex just smiled. “Watch.”

“Damn, look at that Porsche!” Trooper First Class Sam Waverly was driving J-30, a State Police car coming off an afternoon of pursuit-radar work on U.S. Route 50. He and Larry Fontana of J-19 were heading back to the Annapolis police barracks off Rowe Boulevard after a long day’s work when they saw the green sports car take the entrance ramp off Ritchie Highway. Both troopers were driving about sixty-five miles per hour, a privilege that accrued only to police officers. Their cars were unmarked. This made them and their radar guns impossible to spot until it was too late. They usually worked in pairs, and took turns, with one working his radar gun and the other a quarter mile down the road to wave the speeders over for their tickets.